Once back at home I fob Sasha off with a doggy chew so that she’ll leave us in peace, then I pour Frankie and myself a couple of glasses of wine and survey the sitting room thoughtfully.
It’s a tiny cottage. How hard can this be? All I have to do is find the right spot, pull out the loot and ta-da! No more almost electrocuting myself every time I plug the telly in. Simples.
“Right,” says Frankie, rubbing his hands together gleefully, “where shall we start?”
“Derrick said the living room,” I recall. It seems an obvious choice. From what I can remember about moving in, Miss Greville had been using the living room as a bedroom during her last few months. Of course she’d have kept her life savings here where she could keep her eye on them.
“So let’s get stuck in!” Peeling off his beautiful leather jacket and the Hermès scarf, Frankie is rolling up the rug before I even draw breath to reply. He stares at the nailed-down floorboards and then asks, “Where do you keep your crowbar, sweetie?”
“My crowbar?”
“Yes, your crowbar,” Frankie repeats, hopping from foot to foot now in agitation. “We need it to prise these mofos up!”
Do you know, it’s the strangest thing but in over thirty years on this planet it’s never before occurred to me that I’m lacking one of these. But apparently, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a young woman in possession of a potential fortune must be in want of a crowbar.
“I don’t have one,” I confess.
At least, I don’t think we do – unless it’s in the shed with all the boy stuff Ollie keeps in there like… like… well, anyway, like his tools and things.
Frankie looks pained. “I love you, angel girl, but fancy not knowing where your crowbar is. It’s an utter disgrace!”
“And I suppose you know exactly where to find one at your house?”
“Of course. Gabe keeps ours under the bed.”
“Too much information!” I tell him.
Frankie laughs. “Not for anything naughty. We’re mega-famous remember? We might get a stalker or a deranged fan breaking in. Mufty can’t defend us from everyone.”
Mufty is Gabriel’s toy poodle and he has teeth like needles. If I were a stalker, I’d take the crowbar any day.
“We’ll just have to see if we can use brute strength,” Frankie decides.
Since he’s stick thin and I’ve got all the muscle tone of a rice pudding, this idea last for about five seconds. Several snapped fingernails (Frankie) and one giant splinter (me) later, we’ve totally lost heart with pulling up the floorboards by hand. Instead, we’re lying on our stomachs peering down through the cracks between the boards when Ollie walks in.
“Unless snorting dust is the latest A-list vice of choice, what on earth are you two doing?”
Frankie and I leap up as though scalded. We’d been so engrossed in shining the iPhone torch through the floorboard gaps that we hadn’t even heard the door open, although that could have been down to all Frankie’s screeching when a spider crawled across his hand. Frankie catches my eye and I know straight away that he’s not going to say anything.
Ollie slumps onto the sofa, leaning right back and closing his eyes. “Don’t tell me. Katy’s lost another earring, but without the fancy dress this time?”
“Eh?” says Frankie.
“You promised not to bring that up again,” I remind Ollie.
One eye opens and his lovely mouth curls into a smile. “I can’t resist. You made such a lovely WAG and it was such good fun helping you out of that sexy underwear.”
Frankie claps his hands over his ears. “Enough already.”
Ollie laughs. “Chillax, Frankie. Katy thought it might be a good idea to wear two pairs of control pants – until she needed the loo. Then we had an underwear trauma.”
“Double-Spanx bladder?” Frankie nods sympathetically. “Total red carpet nightmare. I feel your pain, girlfriend.”
I feel it too. Even if I live to be as old as Cecily Greville I don’t think I’ll get over the humiliation of my boyfriend having to tug putty-hued spandex over my knees. Ollie almost passed out with the effort.
“I’m not even going to ask what you two are up to now,” Ollie continues, taking off his glasses and grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “I’m so tired I can hardly think. Just don’t switch on any lava lamps.”
“Ha. Ha,” I say, getting to my feet and rolling the carpet back into place. “Actually, Ol, we were looking for hidden treasure.”
“Of course you were,” Ollie agrees wearily. “And when you’ve had enough of looking for it, could you maybe find the kettle and pop that on? I’m going to have a bath and go to bed.”
I’ve told the truth and he doesn’t believe me. How ironic is that? I have every sympathy for the little boy who cried wolf.
“He looks awful,” Frankie says once Ollie’s dragged himself off the sofa and up the stairs to run a bath. “I’ve never seen him look so tired.”
“I told you he was working too hard. He’s even going for an Assistant Head Teacher job.”
Frankie looks alarmed. “That doesn’t sound like Ol. Doesn’t he think all managers are tossers?”
He used to, until Carolyn Miles came along, but I don’t tell Frankie about her. So far I haven’t told anyone except Tansy. I don’t dare.
“I need to do something to take the pressure off him,” is all I say. “And soon.”
“And you will.” Frankie gives me a hug. “We’ll find that loot. It’s down there, I just know it – and I am never wrong. It’s all going to be fine, Katy, trust me.”
All I can do is nod because I really hope he’s right.
And if not? Well then, I just don’t know.
Chapter 9
There’s nothing harder than trying to write a book with a potential fortune underneath your feet. Never mind the temptation of Jeremy Kyle or Facebook; those I can handle. The possibility of treasure under my living room floor I simply can’t ignore.
It’s going to drive me crazy. I have to know!
It’s been four days since Derrick mentioned Cecily Greville’s life savings – four days during which I’ve been slowly and steadily going mad with not knowing. Frankie’s gone back to London to see his agent so I’ve not had access to his crowbar and, as hard as I’ve tried, my kitchen knives are no match for heavy-duty nails. So far I’ve bent three and practically severed one of my fingers in the attempt so, unless I want to type with my nose for the rest of my life, I’ll have to abandon my feeble attempts to lift the floorboards until Frankie returns. He’s made me promise I won’t peep without him being present but it’s proving very difficult to resist.
Focus on the job in hand, Katy! Focus! It’s not as though I have time to waste either, because the pressure is well and truly on since Lisa Armstrong, Throb’s Senior Commissioning Editor, called earlier with the news that they love my chapter and are hiring me as Isara Lovett, their hottest new erotic novelist.
I Lovett? Seriously? I have to admit that, cash-strapped as I am, I almost baulked at this one. I mean, it’s hardly subtle, is it? Then again, Kitchen of Correction is hardly a subtle book. Alexi, the sexy Russian billionaire chef, isn’t really a subtle kind of guy either, not when he gets going with the marrows…
Still, beggars with big rewiring bills, leaky roofs and stressed boyfriends can’t be choosers, so I’ve said yes and the contracts are in the post. The Booker Prize is still a distant dream and I don’t think Radio 4 will be wanting to interview me on Woman’s Hour any time soon, but at least there’s a couple of grand on its way. The deadline’s very tight, though. I only have six weeks to write the thing, so I can’t waste a second.
“Is that going to be all right for you, Katy?” the editor had asked. “We appreciate it’s a very short time frame. Will you be able to make the deadline?”
“Of course!” I’d crossed my fingers, toes and eyes at this point. Anything to get my mitts on that money.
One hundred thousand words
in six weeks seems perfectly doable. Even my hopeless maths is able to calculate it’s only sixteen thousand words or so a week and only just over two thousand a day. I can do that. OK, so this isn’t exactly my usual genre and I’ll have to do a little more research than I normally would (i.e. collude with Mads), but it’s perfectly possible. Kinky kitchen here I come! Or rather, kinky kitchen here Alexi and Lucinda come!
So for now I have to forget the fortune under my sofa and concentrate on justifying my advance. I have to be professional and produce the novel I’ve been paid to write. I can do this. Of course I can. It’s just like the Tansy books, only a bit more thrusty…
I take a deep breath and begin to type.
CHAPTER 2
Great! That’s a start. Maybe I should make a coffee now and have a biscuit while the muse wakes up? Or perhaps have another go at swinging Maddy’s lucky crystal over the carpet? It was a bit confused earlier and swung just about everywhere, which wasn’t quite what Fate and Destiny said it would do. Left for yes and right for no, I think it was. Or maybe the other way around? I’m always getting left and right muddled up, so perhaps the crystal does too – or else there’s so much treasure under there that the crystal doesn’t know what to do first? Oh my God! Of course! That’s exactly what it is! And didn’t my Fate and Destiny horoscope also say something about fortune’s finger pointing my way in a very unexpected manner? What could be more unexpected than finding lost loot under my own sitting room? Fortune’s finger is pointing at me! It really is!
Hold on. Didn’t the National Lottery once use a pointing finger in its advertising campaign? What if the horoscope’s saying I ought to buy some lottery tickets? And tonight the EuroMillions jackpot is meant for me?
Lord. It’s tricky trying to decipher all this cosmic stuff, but I’m feeling lucky and if I don’t act on my intuition it could cost us a fortune. Thirty quid out of the emergency bills account won’t hurt, not when this week’s jackpot is so high. Buying tickets is practically an investment!
A few mouse clicks later I’m feeling very optimistic. The winning tickets have been purchased and my success is in the bag, I just know it. Now the pressure’s off I’m sure I can settle down and write today’s chapter. Let Holly scoff all she likes about the mathematical odds of lottery success.
Tonight I’m sure it’s going to be me.
Before settling down to work I’ll just have a quick scoot round the Rightmove site to pick my dream properties, and maybe I’ll have a little peek at Facebook too. Then I’ll be in a better position to start my chapter. All this is planning and preparation and vitally important. You have to be in the right space to create. You can’t force these things. It’s all about being in a creative state of mind.
Once I’ve chosen our would-be mansion and Range Rover as well as clicking like on a cute Facebook video of dancing kittens, I’m more than ready to return to my book. It’s time to create.
Brace yourself, Chapter 2. Here I come.
Lucinda awoke on the kitchen floor. The vegetable rack was toppled over and her buttocks stung.
Yuk. Not sure I like the juxtaposition of buttocks and vegetables. It’s putting me off my lunch. Let’s delete that bit.
Alexi’s disdainful glance swept over Lucinda. The cabbages were ruined and the courgettes squashed. There was no way he could use them now. He smiled cruelly. Lucinda was only the starter and it was time the other billionaire diners enjoyed a special main course.
Ooo. Main courses. Like steak or maybe pizza? My stomach rumbles. It’s already apparent that writing about food isn’t going to help my waistline, if even carrots and courgettes are making me peckish.
And never mind billionaire diners. What about the billions under my floor?
Drat. It’s no use. I can’t think about writing when there are squillions of pounds just inches away from me. I don’t think even Frankie’s most devoted fan could want to see him as much as I do at this moment: I need him and his crowbar right now. I have to get under the floor! I have to!
I won’t be able to write a word until those sodding floorboards are up.
I’ll distract myself with a quick visit to the fridge. Maybe some of last night’s leftover lasagne will take my mind off it all? It’s lunchtime anyway and I’m sure there’s some law somewhere which dictates workers need regular breaks. I’ll heat up the lasagne, watch Loose Women and then go back to work. I can write two thousand words in an afternoon. How hard can it be? I’ve got the detailed synopsis and the chapter breakdowns spread out in front of me. All I have to do is follow them and concentrate.
I’ve just heaped a generous dollop of Ollie’s lasagne into a bowl and am about to pop it into the microwave when a furious hammering of fists on our front door makes me jump out of my skin. The cottage is tiny and the kitchen opens straight out onto the narrow lane outside. Usually the top half of the stable door is ajar so that I can wave at anyone going by and watch the fishing boats bobbing on the tide while I’m writing, but today it’s closed because I haven’t wanted to stray far from the living room. It would be just my luck if burglars got wind of the loot now and decided to search for it Home Alone style.
“Hello?” calls a voice as the door swings open. “Anyone in?”
Sasha leaps up from her basket, barking furiously and bouncing up and down at the door. As I dive to grab her collar my bowl goes flying. Lasagne drips onto the floor and ceramic shards are everywhere. Experience tells me that I’ll be getting splinters of ceramic in my bare feet for months.
“This is all I bloody need!” I wail.
“Pleased to see you too,” says the visitor (and cause of my lunch fail) as he shuffles into the kitchen. Familiar toffee-coloured eyes stare at me mournfully from beneath a shaggy fringe, and as an enormous rucksack is deposited at my feet I find myself crushed in a bony bear hug.
It’s Ollie’s little brother, Nicky, only not so little anymore; in the six months since I last saw him he’s shot up like a weed and is even sporting some stubble. How old does this make me feel? When I first met Ollie, Nicky was five years old. It’s hard to reconcile the cute kid with a passion for Lego and Thomas the Tank Engine with this six-foot skater dude sporting long hair, a beanie hat and a suspicious-looking roll-up tucked behind his ear.
“God, that smells good. Has Ol been cooking? Can I have some? And are there any biscuits?” Letting go of me, Nicky’s already rifling through the cupboards in search of food. My own starvation is imminent, since his appetite makes a horde of locusts look restrained. When Nicky came to stay last summer our grocery bill trebled and even Sasha feared for her dog biscuits.
“Sweet! There’s some left.” Without waiting for a reply or permission, my boyfriend’s teenage brother dives into the fridge, fishes out the remainder of the lasagne and shovels it into his mouth with a teaspoon. “God, I’m bloody starving,” he says through mouthfuls.
I’m lost for words, partly because most of the air has been squeezed from my lungs and partly because I’m so surprised to see him. Shouldn’t Nicky be safely locked away in his very posh boarding school? A surprise child and eighteen years Ollie’s junior, he’s very much the baby of the family. He’s also hell in converse boots and broke more hearts last summer than I did diets. Just looking at him makes me feel about one hundred and eighty.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?” I ask, wincing to hear myself. Lord. I sound like such a teacher. Just when did I get so old?
Nicky hauls himself up onto the worktop and continues to inhale lasagne while Sasha, who in all the excitement has gobbled up the food I spilled, gazes adoringly up at him in the hope of more.
“Nope. Got kicked out,” he says cheerfully. “Mmm! This is bloody good. Is there any more?”
“Kicked out?” I stare at him. “As in expelled?”
“Yep, although permanent exclusion was what they were calling it,” Nicky says. “It’s more PC apparently. Doesn’t freak the crumblies out as much.”
“And they asked you to leave?
Just like that?” I’m into teacher mode now and my brain is whirling. What about his A-levels? What about his place at Oxford reading politics? And I can’t imagine Nicky has his parents’ consent to travel alone from Sussex to Cornwall.
“How did you get here?” I ask. Tregowan’s impossible to get to by public transport.
“I hitched,” Nicky says airily. “Don’t look like that. I didn’t get snatched by a danger stranger. It’s all groovy gravy.”
Groovy gravy? I don’t think so! There’s a serious safeguarding issue here, since he’s supposed to be in the care of the school! It’s shocking!
“And the school just let you leave?”
His bowl now empty, Nicky hops down from the worktop and begins to rummage through the biscuit tin.
“Cool! Chocolate ones! Can I finish them?”
Unfortunately for Nicky, I’m an expert on teenagers avoiding telling me the truth. You can’t play Where’s Your Coursework? for as long as I have and not know when big porkie pies are being told, deliberately or by omission.
“Nicky? What happened? Did they tell you to go? Or,” I pause and give him my best stern look, “did you just walk out?”
“Don’t give me that teacher face,” says Nicky, selecting two chocolate digestives, which he crams into his mouth. “Mmmph mmm a urgh!”
I translate this easily enough, since it’s a lament I hear most days when I’m in the classroom.
“I’m not having a go,” I say. “But, Nicky, you’ve just turned up in my house, in the middle of term and telling me you’ve been kicked out of school. So what happened? I need to know.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “They were all having a right go at me and said I was going to be excluded, so I saved them the trouble and went.”
“You walked out? They don’t know where you are?”
“Chill out, Katy. I’m eighteen. I can do what I want because I’m actually an adult,” he huffs, with a jutting bottom lip. “Hey! Have you still got that stuff that makes chocolate milk?”
Katy Carter Keeps a Secret Page 9